Find Your Footing
by xPhineasx
Summary: In the aftermath of Sherlock's fall, Lestrade and Mycroft begin to forge a real friendship. As they drift together, however, there may be forces at work to tear them apart.
1. Chapter 1

Find your footing

Mystrade

Rating: T

Chapter 1 /2

x

Some say most great stories start with bad days. By that yardstick, Gregory Lestrade guessed was in for one hell of an adventure, because today had been terrible.

He had been to plenty of funerals before. A few years on the force and you get used to funerals. The good funerals were the ones where some old retired copper finally gave up the ghost and died at home with his family. The bad funerals were the ones where a coworker and a friend got offed on the job, taking a bullet well before his time. This was the worst. Helping carry the casket down the steps of the church in the pouring rain, and placing _him_ into the ground was harder than anything else Lestrade had ever done. The more unbearable part was that he couldn't help but feel responsible.

He had doubted Sherlock. He hadn't wanted to, but...well...he had. If he hadn't doubted, hadn't shown up at the man's house with a damn arrest warrant...maybe things wouldn't have turned out the way they had.

When he had first met Sherlock, the man had been a half-starved junkie, poking around restricted crime scenes. Lestrade hadn't trusted him in the slightest. The man was unstable, but brilliant. A great man, but not yet a good one. Six years of knowing him, of learning to trust him, and Lestrade should have known better than to doubt him. Sherlock Holmes was a good man in the end, and Lestrade should have known better. The guilt was unbearable.

Now he had to stand in the English drizzle and place a wholly inadequate hand on the shoulder of John Watson while dirt was shoveled onto the grave. He wished he had brought an umbrella to keep the rain off, but then, he didn't actually own one.

John had put on a strong face for the funeral. He was a soldier, Lestrade reminded himself. John hadn't cried when his sister talked about how much Sherlock had "changed her brother's life for the better." He hadn't cried when Mycroft Holmes said his few brief words about how at least his mother wasn't alive to see "her beloved son cut down so young." John hadn't even cried when Mrs. Hudson told the story of how Sherlock had helped her out in Florida, and the day he had officially moved into Baker Street. Even when it was his turn to stand there in front of the pitiful dozen or so mourners and say his small bit about believing in Sherlock, John managed not to cry. Lestrade felt for him.

The tears would come later, Greg knew. Once the shock wore off. Once he was alone. This was a pain that Lestrade knew he couldn't help heal. It was something that John was going to have to deal with by himself. Eventually, he had to walk away and let John have his moment alone. There was nothing he could do anymore, and the feeling of helplessness was too much.

Mycroft Holmes walked over to Lestrade, sipping what appeared to be a cup of coffee, and holding an umbrella. The rain falls on the just and unjust alike, but it does not fall on Mycroft Holmes. With that thought, Lestrade looked at the coffee steaming in the man's hand. Lestrade yearned for a cup himself. Coffee addictions were part of his job description, and the stress only made things worse. "He's not doing well, is he?" Mycroft asked.

Lestrade looked back over at John. He was just standing in front of the grave- still no gravestone- staring at the dirt. "No, I don't think he is..." he said awkwardly. He glanced at Mycroft Holmes. Even at his own brother's funeral, the man looked as stoic as ever. He remembered what John had said once: that Moriarty had called Mycroft the "ice man." Fitting name.

Lestrade had worked with Mycroft in limited capacities before. The man had kidnapped him once shortly after he first met Sherlock, and occasionally showed up at the Yard to check up on what his brother was doing every few months ever since. Lestrade just sort of accepted his existence as a side effect of the weirdness that was Sherlock, and occasionally was persuaded into giving Sherlock a case, or going on a case with Sherlock at Mycroft's request.

"I heard he was gunna go stay at his sisters. He'll be fine in time," Lestrade said, partly trying to convince himself of that fact. "Are you doing alright then? He was your brother after all," he said, his voice inflecting as to suggest that it was just idle curiosity and nothing more. He didn't want to come off as prying. The private affairs of government officials was a dangerous terrain to tread. He was always torn somewhere between curiosity and intimidation when faced with the smug silent confidence that emanated from Mycroft.

"We can hardly have the British Government taking a holiday to mourn one man, can we?" Mycroft Holmes was looking straight ahead. "I am fine. We weren't exactly close." Lestrade didn't push him. He knew that wasn't exactly true, after all. Mycroft Holmes had called him up and sent him to 'watch over' Sherlock more than once on dangerous cases. He insisted on status reports, and had bailed Sherlock out of more than one sticky situation before the man had gotten his drug problem under control. The man did care or else why bother? No, Lestrade saw right through that, but he wasn't one to needle someone, especially at a funeral.

Without looking at him, Mycroft handed his cup of coffee to Lestrade. Lestrade took it, confused by the act. He wasn't ungrateful though. Sweet blissful coffee. He sipped and felt it warm him up inside, the caffeine sinking into his bones. It wasn't really the way he liked it. It was too sugary for him, but he wasn't going to complain.

"Do not worry yourself about me, Detective Inspector. You just worry about catching your criminals and check in on John now and then, would you?" The man's voice was still as high and lofty as ever.

"Ah, right. Yeah, I can do that." Lestrade shoved his hands into his pockets. "Well, I should get back to the force. Shouldn't leave Anderson in charge for too long, right?" He wanted to get away from this place; the ambient sadness and persistent damp.

A small smirk crossed the older, and now only, Holmes' face. "Indeed."

"I guess I'll see you around then, maybe," Lestrade said, though he had no idea if Mycroft Holmes would need his assistance with anything now that Sherlock was...well.

"Yes, maybe..." Mycroft's voice was flat at that. With nothing else to say, Lestrade walked back to his car and left.

X x x

Lestrade stared at the table in front of him. Dozens of objects (a pair of shoes, a dirty pack of gum, two bullet casings, etc) sat in labeled plastic bags, scattered across the table hopelessly. This case had stalled out. _If Sherlock were here, he'd be able to solve this in five minutes_ he thought helplessly. Even months after the man's death, Lestrade found that at the end of every dead-end case there was a thought of Sherlock waiting for him. There was a story here, he knew, he just couldn't read it without Sherlock's annotations.

He picked up the plastic baggie with someone's left shoe inside and stared at it. He tried to imagine how Sherlock thought. Details, those damnable details. Some super specific mud on the sole maybe? It looked like normal mud to him. Maybe something odd about the laces or...the...leather? Lestrade ran his fingers through his hair with a sigh. The shoe refused to give up any secrets. "Bollocks," he sighed and dropped the shoe back on the table and reached for his jacket. That was it, he was done.

"I'm headed out, everyone," he said and he headed through the office.

"Anderson said some of the boys were heading down to the pub about an hour ago, boss. You're invited," one of the younger officers, in for the night shift, informed him. Ah, the pub. That would take the edge off. Since things with Karen had officially ended, Greg jumped at nearly any chance to spend time with people outside of work. If pressed, he would have to admit that he was rather lonely, going home to his empty flat night after night, if he made it home at all.

Against all reason, he often found himself missing Karen. He missed the kids more, and the thought of missing any moment of their lives was a heavy weight for him, but he and Karen had been friends since college. She had been his best friend, and a good wife. He hadn't meant to hurt her. No one on the team really knew why things had ended, but divorce wasn't uncommon for their line of work and everyone let him have his peace. He still got to see the kids on the weekends, but he rarely got a full weekend off these days. What a cliché; he thought miserably, the lonely, divorced cop.

"Yeah, thanks. I think I'll go join them." He headed out into the damp. Karen used to always berate him for not owning an umbrella. She said he'd catch his death in the damp. As if coppers are every lucky enough to die because of the rain, ha. Lestrade rather liked walking through the drizzle though, in a weird way. It helped him think. Besides, he was rubbish at owning umbrellas. He always ended up leaving them in the back seat of cabs, on the tube, or at crime scenes. It was easier to just not own one.

"You'll catch your death out here, Detective Inspector," said a smug infallible voice. It was Mycroft Holmes. Lestrade hadn't seen him since the funeral. Apparently without Sherlock Holmes running around getting into trouble, Mycroft Holmes had no errands for the DI to take care of for him.

The man was standing under a street lamp, safe from the rain by his sleek umbrella. He appeared to be alone, though Lestrade knew that some SO1 guys would be hovering nearby. They always were.

"Mr. Holmes?" The man was looking just as prim, proper and professional as ever. Next to him Lestrade practically felt raggedy. "I was just heading to the pub. Did you need something? The free world isn't ending is it?" he asked with a small smirk.

"Thankfully, no. I found myself with the evening off, and I felt the urge to simply check up on how things were going down here," he said. Lestrade wasn't sure where exactly _down here_ was (downtown? Down among the common folk? The metaphorical 'down' that the high and mighty use to refer to normal reality?), but he decided not to comment on it. Each inflection of the man's voice hinted that just maybe he was making fun of you. It reminded him of Sherlock, who used to speak every word as though he were annoyed at the idiocy of reality itself.

"Ah, well...do you want to come to the pub then?" Lestrade offered, because it as only the polite thing to do, and you had to be polite to Mycroft Holmes. "It's about as 'down here' as you can get this part of town."

"I'll have to pass. Security concerns, of course," Mycroft said in a half smirk. "I may stand out a little. Cramp your...style. But perhaps you'd honour me for a drink tomorrow? It is best for those in government to have some understanding of the day to day legwork that goes into our justice system, yes?" Mycroft said the word legwork like it was some kind of vermin. "You could fill me in all about your...department," Mycroft suggested.

"Oh like...go out for a drink?"

"Strictly business, Detective Inspector, of course." Lestrade wasn't sure how to interpret that, but then he had a hard time reading through all the convoluted layers of Mycroft Holmes all the time. The man was as big as an enigma as Sherlock had been, only while Sherlock was simply bored and rude, Mycroft was overly polite and pointed.

"Oh...well, sure, yeah, I suppose I could pop off for a bit."

"Tomorrow. Very brief, of course. I don't wish to disturb your plans. I'll have a car sent for you," Mycroft said as a sleek black car rolled up and stopped next to him. "Do take care not to get ill in the rain, Detective Inspector," he said as he got into his car.

Lestrade watched the car roll off into the damp London dark and gave a sigh. Comfort or curse, it seemed he still wasn't free of the Holmes boys.

X

Mycroft always found himself thinking of puppies when he spoke to Lestrade. The man certainly had the wide eyed silliness of some terrier mongrel, easy enough to train, loyal enough to be endearing. The detective inspector struck him as neither clever nor cunning, but rather a man who found great satisfaction in a _good day's work_ and the most simple pleasures in life. It was a quality that was rather novel in Mycroft's acquaintances, and it never failed to bring a small smirk to his lips.

He was rather pleased that the man had agreed to have a drink with him. He bustled through his work for the day as efficiently as possible, looking forward to an evening at the club with the terrier detective that his brother had been so fond of.

It was a good distraction from work. Between all of his normal duties, Mycroft had been putting in extra hours on the Moriarty case. It seemed that the criminal mastermind was in fact dead, but the vestiges of his web still remained. Mycroft wouldn't be satisfied until he had torn up and torched every weed of Moriarty's empire and salted the earth. It was stressful work, and it felt far more personal than all his other endeavors. Some time off socializing with the DI would be relaxing. It would be good for him.

x

"So, don't talk to anyone," the young PA was telling Greg as she tapped away on her phone. Lestrade had been told her name was Anthea, but he had copper's intuition that was an alias. She was a pretty girl, young, and given her employment by Mycroft, probably very good at keeping secrets. Speaking to her made Lestrade feel rather lost and confused, so he tried not to make conversation.

He felt woefully underdressed. Gregory Lestrade owned two suits; the suit he wore to his wedding, and the suit he wore to work. He had worn his work suit, and now regretted that choice. It was a functional, well worn grey and it looked like it had been peppered with Dickensian poverty compared to the splendor of the Diogenes club. Bollocks.

He did as he was told though. He walked straight through the Diogenes club, past all the over dressed refined old men, with their brandy and their cigars and their hip problems without speaking a word until he reached the back room where Mycroft Holmes sat like a king in a castle, sipping on wine and reading some horrible cheap tabloid.

"Ah, detective inspector, you're right on time," Mycroft said and set the paper aside. Greg glanced at the paper and tried not to laugh at the idea of Mycroft Holmes reading that trash.

"Your assistant made sure of that, didn't she? Practically herded me out of the office in front of the whole force," Lestrade replied. "Firecracker, that one."

"Mm, yes. Glass of port, detective inspector?" Mycroft offered, motioning to a small crystalline bottle on the table next to him. Lestrade did not drink any wine, generally, least of all port. When he did get wine it tended to be very cheap swill from the corner store. He couldn't really afford port if he was honest. He generally stuck to just a pint of lager after work, and maybe a packet of crisps to balance it out.

"Only if I can get a glass of starboard as well," Lestrade said jokingly and flopped down in the chair opposite Mycroft.

It looked like it took Mycroft a moment to get the pun. He gave a genuine smile. "Very clever, Detective Inspector."

"You can call me Gregory, you know. Or Greg. Or Lestrade, I guess. That's what Sherlock called me anyway. It doesn't need to be detective inspector every time. Bit long winded." Lestrade gave a small shrug as he spoke, squinting his nose.

"Well then, Gregory, a glass of port it is then." Mycroft was smiling wider.

"Ta," Lestrade said. He had a general sort of rule to avoid liquor before 6pm. He'd had a bad bout with the drink just after his wife had left him and taken the kids, and he had resolved to not go down that gutter again, but port was a rare luxury and Mycroft was paying.

Mycroft reached over and pressed a small button on the wall. Within seconds a butler appeared, took Mycroft's order for another bottle of port, and disappeared again. Fancy.

"So you...wanted me to tell you about what the force is working on?" Greg slumped back into his chair out of pure habit. He should have had better posture in such a posh place, but habit trumped that. He was a slumper.

"Something like that, yes."

"We got a couple of homicides." Greg knew that he shouldn't really talk about unsolved cases with the public, but he knew better than to consider Mycroft part of the public. "Got suspects for 'em all but one. One is...a little tricky."

"And you aren't seeking any outside help for that case?"

"It's not like I can just call up a spare Sherlock in the phonebook, eh? Don't just have consulting detectives laying around willy nilly. Besides, I almost lost my job for letting your brother help out all those times. We've been banned from consulting private detectives by the higher-ups," Greg sighed. "It's...a real shame. Sherlock really was a help. I feel..."

"A bit lost without him?"

"Yeah. It's like I've lost my footing."

"Indeed," Mycroft said softly.

"Your brother's case is officially closed at the Yard," Greg said softly. He hated it. He believed John; that Sherlock was a good man, that Moriarty was real. His superiors disagreed though, and the choice hadn't been his. "But I thought maybe...are you looking into it? This Moriarty guy? He can't have been working alone."

Mycroft frowned and looked down at his hands. "I know it is unfair, Gregory, but while you share information about your job with me, I'm not at liberty to do the same. But I can say this, I know my brother, and he's not the sort of man to jump. I will not let that rest. I can say no more."

Greg had no reply for that, and it seemed that Mycroft couldn't give him any more answers. The two men sat in stilted silence for a long minute until the port was delivered and poured. Greg sipped it. It really was good, though too expensive for his taste. Finally Greg let out one of his crooked sideways smiles and shook his head. "I feel a bit out of my depth here, to be honest, Mr. Holmes. This club, the port, it's is all very fancy." He rubbed his nose absently.

"Mycroft. If I am to call you Gregory, then you call me Mycroft. That is polite, isn't it?" Mycroft said with a smug little smile of his own. "And if you feel uncomfortable here, perhaps...next time we meet we shall convene in a cafe of sorts?"

"Next time?" Greg let a small smile tug at the the side of mouth. "Well, I could recommend a few places for next time."

"Periodic status reports from the Yard would be appreciated." Mycroft gave him an enigmatic grin.

X

Mycroft Holmes did not normally frequent cafes. Greg found himself feeling smug and privileged that the mysterious man was willing to spend an hour or so a week sitting in the coffee shop a block from the Yard, going over any news and cases. It wasn't that Mycroft ever really helped with the cases, but Greg found that he enjoyed having an outside ear to talk to.

Karen had never wanted to hear about work when they were together. She told him that when he was home he needed to "shut off" and stop being a police man. (Though the extent of their relationship problems went far beyond her unwillingness to listen to his work stories.) He had never really had anyone that would just let him talk about work outside the force before.

Mycroft was a good listener, once Greg was able to get past the feeling that he was judging every word, much like his brother used to.

They fell into a sort of rhythm. Greg always had Thursday nights off, unless something particularly brutal had been done by the criminal underworld of London. Mycroft was generally free in the evenings, baring an international crisis. So most Thursdays he found himself going to a respectable cafe, drinking coffee with Mycroft Holmes, unless a brutal murder or the fate of the free world interrupted.

"Sorry I'm late," Greg said as he approached their usual table. He was dripping wet from the rain, cheeks flushed from jogging all the way there.

"Quite alright," Mycroft said, sitting with one leg hooked over the other, sipping on whatever was the most decadent, extravagant coffee the little cafe served. He motioned to the chair across from him and a steaming cup of rather plain coffee that was waiting there. "No cream, two sugars, yes?"

"You know my coffee order?" Lestrade said as he sat down across from the man and took an experimental sip from the cup. It was made just to his liking.

"I may not be my brother, but I think I can remember how you prepare your coffee order after having seen you prepare it at least a dozen times now, Gregory."

Ten years of marriage and Karen had never managed to remember that he was allergic to shellfish, but Mycroft Holmes had memorized his coffee order in the short time they had become friends. Greg's heart gave a strange, worrying little jump at that. He wasn't used to people paying that much attention to him. "Right," Greg couldn't repress a small lop sided grin as he sat down. "Thanks Mycroft."

"But you really should buy an umbrella. You'll catch your death in the rain." Mycroft took another sip of his posh coffee with a sort of good natured disapproval.

"You sound like my ex-wife. Hasn't happened yet." Greg shrugged and drank his coffee. The bitter caffeine, tempered slightly by the sugar, revitalized him. "So I think we have a serial killer," Greg said softly, practically dying to get the news off his chest. He had been discussing the mater with Sally and Anderson all morning, but telling Mycroft was much more cathartic. "We can't be sure yet, but we've had two murders in the past months with the same pattern now."

"My, my, how delightfully exciting."

Greg let out a laugh, because who but a Holmes would describe a serial murder as delightful?

x

Mycroft started texting him regularly. It never seemed to be anything important, but Greg found himself smiling down at his phone at least once of twice a day at a text. Sometimes it was as simple as "Ah, a day without rain in London. I must wonder about the frozen state of hell. - MH," but it didn't really matter what Mycroft texted him. Each little note brightened his day slightly.

Even notes canceling or postponing plans made him smile. One that simply said "My, my, the French are a talkative bunch. I will be late for coffee. Do wait. -MH" made him grin all day.

x

Greg was sitting at his desk, looking over the files for the two potential serial killings that had. He had a stack of reports to sign off on waiting for his attention and he kept hoping that he would get a text from Mycroft to cheer him up.

"Sir?" Sally stood in the doorway.

"Hm?" Greg didn't look up.

"You got a package." She had the same annoyed look she always sported when she was bored. Sally wasn't really a people person, but she was a good copper.

"What? Here?" Greg looked up. He never got mailed delivered to the office. Karen used to send him Chinese takeout when she knew he wasn't going to make it home until late, but those days were long past.

Sally held out long, thin package. "We already let the dogs sniff it. It doesn't seem to be a bomb."

Greg frowned slightly, took the package and ripped open the paper. A thin, posh looking umbrella revealed itself. The note taped to the end simply said "I'd rather you not die of pneumonia. Have a good day, Gregory – MH"

"Secret admirer?" Sally asked, seeing the goofy smile spreading across his face.

"...just a friend. Thanks Sally," Greg said and bit his bottom lip slightly, still smiling. He didn't stop smiling all day.

x

"You should let me take you our for a beer sometime, Mycroft," Greg said over a cup of coffee. He was grinning widely. He grinned with his entire top row of teeth, Mycroft had noted. It was frankly an adorable expression. "Or Pizza or something."

"I'm not really sure-" Despite the cute smile, Mycroft was taken off guard by the suggestion. He hadn't 'gone out for pizza or something' since school, and even then only because he had been trying his hardest to impress the boy that asked him.

Boarding school had been an interesting time in Mycroft's life. He was free of Sherlock following him around everywhere he went, and he discovered that despite his rather mundane appearances he was able to seduce his classmates with surprising ease if he desired. He hadn't really put his efforts towards anyone in years now, and he worried he might be losing his touch. He couldn't tell if his courtship of the detective inspector was working or if the man was this personable to everyone.

He placed his tongue on the roof of his mouth, thinking it over. Well, he was trying to impress Gregory he reasoned. His current tactics weren't making expedient headway, and he was only so patient. The free world wouldn't crumble if he got pizza. It wasn't like he was getting any closer to tracking down Sebastian Moran or Moriarty's other little loose ends anyway. "Perhaps..."

"I'll get you out of your comfort zone yet, Holmes. Something a little more substantial than coffee." Greg laughed good-naturedly. "You just let me know when you're free, yeah?"

"This wouldn't be revenge for making you go to the Diogenes club, is it?" Mycroft steepled his fingers under his chin and quirked a sophisticated eyebrow at Greg. He managed a small smile.

"Maybe," he laughed, enjoying the comradeship and companionship of the moment.

x

It was raining again. It was always raining in London it seemed. It was one of those silly stereotypes that tourists always seemed to go home spouting that just happened to be true. London was a damp, damp place. Lestrade stood in the damp, staring at their third body and wondered what it would be like to live in a place that occasionally dried out.

"This is the third one with the same pattern," Sally said, walking over to him. "I think we have to call it, sir. We have a serial killer." Lestrade groaned. It if was official then they would have to call a press conference, and he hated nothing more than dealing with reporters.

Greg sighed. "Ok. Get the forensics report on my desk by tomorrow." He was tired and his socks were damp. Damp socks made everything worse.

He turned to go talk to the witness who found the body, only to be distracted by the silhouette of a man in the street lamp across the street. There was only one man in London who was as posh and dapper as the outline, standing there under the omnipresent umbrella.

"Mycroft," Greg said, walking over. He found himself feeling less stressed already. He didn't take the time to really explore that feeling, chalking it up to the fact that he desperately wanted a distraction and here one was. Thinking about how the highlight of his week had become seeing Mycroft Holmes was troubling at best. He hadn't really...seen anyone since things with Karen had blown up in his face, and becoming infatuated to the British government seemed dangerous. Bugger, being infatuated with a man was a strange dangerous feeling all on it's own.

"Hello Gregory. Hope I'm not distracting you from work." Mycroft was wearing an understated but deceptively expensive suit.

"No worries. But...why are you here?"

"Oh, I was just in the neighborhood. Saw the flashing lights and police tape."

Greg snorted. He didn't find that likely. This wasn't exactly Mycroft's kind of neighborhood. The more time Greg spent around Mycroft the more time Greg realized that he wanted to spend around Mycroft, and the more he kind of understood how the man thought, as much as anyone could understand a Holmes.

"And, I thought that perhaps you would allow me to buy you dinner tomorrow. Something a little more substantial than coffee, as you suggested the other day."

"Oh. Pizza then?" Greg grinned wide at that.

Mycroft's smile curled across his face. "Quite. I trust you can suggest a suitable pizza parlor?"

"Yeah, I know a few places." Greg started trying to think of a suitable place. Good pizza, New York style, not Chicago, that was authentic but not grimy. Mycroft didn't like grime.

"Anthea will be in touch for the address," Mycroft said smugly and turned back to the car idling beside him. "I'll have a car sent for you at seven."

x

Anthea had been waiting in the car while Mycroft went on his silly little errand. It was putting a dent in their itinerary for the rest of the evening. She was working on her phone, letting the right people know that they were running late. It was a a lot of work but, she looked up and saw her boss chatting happily with the Detective Inspector, she figured it was worth it.

Eventually Mycroft got back in the car, sitting next to Anthea. "Do pencil my dinner into the agenda, please," he told the girl. "Tomorrow. Let's say seven."

"Of course boss." London rolled past the windows and Mycroft grinned to himself. Anthea looked over at him and smiled as well. Her boss had been very solemn in the months following his brother's suicide. Well, not suicide, and both she and Mycroft knew it. More like murder. They both knew Moriarty was real, no matter what anyone else thought.

Mycroft had managed to convince everyone, even himself, that he was ok in the aftermath of that monumental shock, but Anthea knew better. The only time she had really seen Mycroft happy in the past six months was after his weekly meetings with the DI. She was more than happy to meddle with the man's packed schedule until a simple dinner was arranged if it made him happy.

Things would improve once they were able to track down all of Moriarty's associates and had them neutralized. That would give Mycroft some closure. Until then any distraction was a good thing, and Gregory Lestrade was the best distraction on the table.

She enjoyed working for Mycroft. He paid her well, was always polite, and gave her plenty of perks for her work. It was nice to see him somewhat happy again.

Without any warning, the driver pulled the car off the main road and into an alley way.

"Charles?" Anthea said, wanting to ask what was going on.

"S...sorry miss. They...they have my nephew," the driver whispered just as the smell of halothane vapor, designed to knock them out, filled the car. _Well, damn, we really need to improve our security screening for employees,_ Anthea managed to think before the darkness welled up to meet her.


	2. Chapter 2

x

Lestrade was glancing at his watch every ten seconds or so. He had texted Anthea the address of little pizza place he had chosen for his dinner with Mycroft hours ago. It was seven now, time for him to get picked up, and he hadn't even gotten so much as a text from the woman or Mycroft. It was totally out of character for the both of them, and it was beginning to cause him some serious stress.

He was trying to tell himself that it was nothing. Mycroft probably got held up saving the world, and maybe Anthea finally had a day off. It seemed possible at least. To compensate for his stress Greg was attempting to drown himself with coffee. Sweet caffeine always seemed to help a little at least.

He was currently on his third cup of the hour. He sat at his desk, tapping his pen, full of nervous energy. He knew he was being foolish. Mycroft Holmes was a grown man, and being an hour late to a dinner was not the end of the world.

Sally stuck her head into his office looking concerned. "Um..Lestrade?" It was unusual to see Sally legitimately look worried about anything. Annoyed, certainty, but not worried. She had perfected the art of distancing herself emotionally from her cases, which was a useful trait in a cop. She really only looked worried when she was delivering bad news. Lestrade did not want to deal with bad news.

"Not now, Sally. I'm about to leave." He was, he was sure. Any moment Anthea or Mycroft would stroll into the office like they owned the place and hustle him off for pizza.

"This is kind of important sir. Top Priority from the Feds. Missing persons," she cleared her throat like she was trying to be gentle.

"We don't do missing persons. That's not our-" he began.

"It's Mycroft Holmes, sir," she said quickly. "He and his PA have been reported missing. There is concern it's a kidnapping."

Lestrade set his coffee back on his desk, his hand shaking slightly. "Damn," he said. He hated it when paranoia proved to be right.

x

When Mycroft woke up he realized that he had been kidnapped. _Again._ He truly hated getting kidnapped. It had only happened twice before in his life, and both times had been exceedingly unpleasant. Now he was going to miss that lovely dinner with Gregory Lestrade.

The first time he had been kidnapped was in Budapest, and it had taken the British embassy a whole three hours to procure the money for his release. The terrorists had asked for a trifling amount, having no idea just how valuable the information Mycroft had was, and they had been too afraid of his calm enigmatic persona to actually hit him much. The whole affair had been more inconvenient than anything.

The second time had been in Chile, and that had taken a bit longer to get out of. It was more painful as well. Those thugs had been a little better informed and much less squeamish than the ones in Budapest. He didn't like to think about it. Mycroft rather hoped that this experience was more like his first, and less like his second.

He wasn't sure how long he sat in the dark, cold room strapped to a chair before the door opened and the light switched on. It appeared he was in a rather run down old flat, probably near the old ship yards based on the architecture. Mycroft's face remained impassive, but his stomach sunk slightly as he saw the man at the door. He had the feeling that this was going to be more like Chile than Budapest, sadly.

"Ah, Colonel Moran," Mycroft said calmly. "You have a rather unconventional way of scheduling meetings. Most people who wish an audience with me simply contact my main office."

Colonel Sebastian Moran gave a predatory grin. The last time Mycroft had seen him was on the day that James Moriarty was released from his questioning. They had interrogated Moriarty for weeks about the key code before they finally released him. Moran had been informed that Moriarty was to be dropped at an inconspicuous train station near Bristol. The former military sniper had been waiting when they arrived. He had grabbed Jim Moriarty's elbow and helped him into a car rather roughly, glaring at Mycroft the entire time. Mycroft remembered wondering what the nature of their relationship was at the time.

Sebastian Moran had been a handsome, but controlled looking man. Mycroft had read over his file once; a soldier gone rogue, disinherited from a powerful father. Despite that, all witnesses to his person described him as stoic and patient. The man in front of him looked close to insanity. Madness reeked from him. His eyes were dark and fierce. That expression looked more like Moriarty than the sniper who had served him now.

"Sorry to be unconventional, Mr. Holmes. I wanted to make an impression." He was twirling a small screwdriver in one hand. "I'm planning on making several impressions. Deep ones. Ones you won't forget soon." He laughed, low, vicious and skating right on the crumbling edge of control.

"You know, we've been looking for you," Mycroft told him. "I suppose you've saved us the trouble by finding me, instead." Mycroft glanced around the room, wondering if he could deduce any more useful information about his location. It didn't seem likely. Even if he could get a more exact fix on his location, he had no way of contacting anyone. His phone was gone, as was his watch, both of which had tracking devices in them. It seemed Moran had stripped the items from him before they got to this flat. Even his umbrella was gone, which was a shame. He had like the umbrella.

"Well, I was tired of waiting around for you to find me," Moran replied.

"It's information you want then, I assume," Mycroft said, his voice still calm.

"Eventually," Moran said. "You'll tell us all kinds of things, Mr. Holmes. Nuclear codes, pin numbers to all the right bank accounts, don't get me wrong. But first, let's see if we can't remember how you tortured Jim when you held him. See, he would never tell me much about it. I saw all the scars though. Every last one. Perhaps you can help me fill in the blanks with some demonstrations."

"Ah revenge. How inelegant."

Moran just laughed like a predator.

x

There were no leads. Nothing for Greg to go on at all. He had every man he could spare on this case. Serial murderers could go bugger themselves.

There had been no word from the kidnappers, no ransom note, no contact, no nothing. He had men going through every second of CCTV footage from all over the city, scouring the tapes for any clue as to where Mycroft had been taken.

It made Greg feel sick. He hadn't slept at all since he got the news, and had spent his time switching between patrols and helping the men go through the CCTV footage frame by frame.

"Sir, you should sleep." Sally walked up beside him. Greg was going over the CCTV footage again. The last time Mycroft appeared on camera was at the crime scene the night before when theyhad made their pizza plans. Mycroft had gotten into his car, the car had driven off and then...it was gone. In some gap between cameras, the car and the people in it had vanished. It was the same spot where both Mycroft and Anthea's phones both had their GPS disabled.

"I'm fine," Lestrade said weakly and sipped his coffee. He couldn't even taste it anymore. He burned his tongue a few cups back in a desperate attempt to get more coffee into his system before the pot was done brewing.

He really wasn't fine though, that much was obvious. A single thought kept coming back to him; _'It's your fault Sherlock is dead. If you don't do your job, it'll be your fault if Mycroft dies too.' _He couldn't allow that.

"You've been on the clock for almost 24 hours sir. If we find anything, we will let you know. Sleep."

"I'll just nap in my office," Greg compromised. He could see the protest in Sally's face but he ignored it. "Look, go to the section of town where the car went missing. Search it. Search alleys. Look for tire tracks. Look for anything weird. Get a report on my desk as soon as you can. Find something."

"Of course." Sally sighed. She was exhausted too.

x

Mycroft weathered the pain by reorganizing his mind palace. It didn't matter how many questions the men screamed at him, or how they wanted to hurt him. Mycroft could simply close his eyes and find himself in his mind.

Mycroft's mind palace was much larger than his brother's, because unlike Sherlock, Mycroft never had to delete anything. He simply added room after room of information in neat, efficient little arrangements and never had to remove any memory or thought from his brain. The overall shape of the mind palace was his childhood home, but each room within was unique, places from his life that he had spent a lot of time, or was fond of.

He started in his bedroom back in his parent's house as he always did. He had been ten when he first started to build and maintain his mind palace, and at the time his bedroom was the place he felt most comfortable. His room was a pale blue, tidy, and clean, just the way he had left it. Scattered about it were books and trinkets, pictures and furniture. Each one triggered a memory or fact; his mother's birthday, his father's blood type, the eating and sleeping habits of his brother when he was still a toddler.

Down the hall was his boarding school dorm room. He had spent three terms in this room. It was where he first smoked a cigarette. He had first kissed a boy in this room. Its bare walls and shelves crammed with small objects had its own set of facts that he had arranged there like knick knacks.

"Come now, Mr. Holmes, tell us what we want to know!" The pain rattled through his bones as he was punched again. It wasn't Moran. No, it was one of his ambitious little thugs yelling vague and easily ignored questions. "We want codes!" Moran was much harder to ignore than these fools.

There was a globe sitting on his desk. In that object was the memory that the circumference of the Earth was 40,075.16 kilometers, the name of every country on Earth, and the capital cities of each nation. More objects lay nearby; notebooks, paperbacks, a pocket watch; His school schedule, The exact date for every final he had taken in school, calculus formulae, conversion tables for metric to Imperial systems, the conjugations of latin verbs.

"Dammit, if we don't get the information from him by the time Moran comes back..."

"I know, I know. Bugger the punchin' then. Just bring me a knife."

The next room was the main hall of the Diogenes club. Here sat the beginnings of his adult life. The names and faces of every member of parliament. Knowledge of the Asian stock markets.

The nastiest memory in the room always drew his attention. A stain on the carpet. The day Mycroft found out about Sherlock's drug use sat in that stain; the feeling of walking into the police station and finding his brother strung out on cocain of all things. He curled up in the corner of the cell, staring at the other men with yes like a frightened prey animal, pupils blown wide by the drugs in his blood. That was the memory that reminded him why he had to look after Sherlock, how fragile his brother really was, why he had to have people watch over him, how poorly he had failed him in the end.

"Dammit, he didn't even twitch! If I cut him any deeper, we'll lose him to the blood loss and then he'll be no good to anyone!"

He moved on. The next room was the little bakery down the street from his house. The glass case glittered with sweets. Donuts, cupcakes, strudel. A thousand little temptations to his diet plan. These were more personal memories, things he liked. Graduating from Oxford. The first time he was offered knighthood.

The fist time he met Gregory Lestrade.

Gregory had scowled as he got out of the car. Mycroft was already there in the warehouse, waiting. Gregory Lestrade had met his brother that day. Sherlock, just out of rehab, but not really cured, had shown up at a crime scene. He was high, rude, and of course brilliant. Lestrade had seemed impressed, albeit annoyed, and as with all people whom is appeared would be staying in his brothers life for some time, Mycroft had an offer for him.

"Yeah, I'll keeps tabs on Sherlock for you, but I don't want your money, Mr. Holmes. I'll do this only because I can't be in charge of looking after Sherlock on my own. You're brother is more than I can handle myself." Mycroft nodded and thanked him and was glad that his brother had finally found someone else who cared about his well being, even if his brother hadn't realized it. Gregory Lestrade had earned some respect that night.

Mycroft smiled at that memory.

"What are you smiling at, Holmes?"

Mycroft was shaken out of his mental exercise. "Oh, sorry. I guess I got distracted. Are you still trying to get information from me?" he asked with a deceptively placid smile. The pain was threading through each nerve ending of his body, but he had long ago mastered the art of ignoring his body and its various demands.

x

Greg stared at the reports spread out in front of him. Tire tracks, cigarettes, the remains of both Mycroft and Anthea's phones in a trash can. It didn't look like much at all. None of the other teams, from SO1, to Mycroft's own secret service had found anything more. He kept hoping that the kidnappers would simply call and demand ransom already.

"Sir?" It was Sally again.

"If you're going to tell me to go home and rest Sally, I won't."

"Look," she raised her hands and gave an exasperated sigh. "I don't know what is going on with you and that Holmes, but working yourself to death isn't going to help. This is too emotional for you, sir. Too personal."

"Nothing is going on with me and Mycroft." Lestrade ran his hand over his face. He was too strung out to put up much emotional resistance anymore. The only thing that was going to help was finding Mycroft, but it all felt so helpless. He felt like he was stumbling blind, just trying not to fall.

Once again Greg realized, he wished Sherlock was there to help.

x

Mycroft had remained strong and silent through all the torture. He was hoping that a rescue would come soon. Surely there were people out looking for him. Maybe even Gregory, he realized and the idea perked him up some. But what chance did they have of finding him? If Moran was anything like Moriarty, he was good at covering his tracks.

"Bring the girl in. We need _something_ from him before Moran gets back." There was a woman on the team. She seemed to be second in command of the operation. Whenever Moran left she was in charge. She was more urgent to get information from him than Moran as, Mycroft realized. Moran just liked to hurt him.

Anthea was dragged in by one of the men. Mycroft felt a stab of guilt. She was just as bloodied as he was it seemed. She knew the risks of working with him, of course, but this went beyond the usual work expectations.

"I haven't told them anything, sir," she said softly, looking at him as she was forced onto her knees on the floor.

"Very good. You'll be getting a raise once we're out of this," Mycroft said and managed a weak smile for the girl.

"Vacation time as well, sir?" She had managed a weak smile back. Mycroft felt somewhat relieved at that. She wasn't so hurt that she couldn't make jokes. It was a good sign. "I've been wanting to visit France again."

"Naturally."

"Oh this is absurd," one of the thugs growled and pulled Anthea up by her hair. "One of you is going to start talking very soon, or we're just going to hit you until the boss gets back."

"Well I do hope your boss won't take too long," Anthea said in a croaking voice. "I'd hate for you to hurt your hand much." Mycroft was proud that he had hired her.

x

They had moved on to interviewing people who lived or worked near where Mycroft's car had disappeared. Greg had spoken to five people already, and each one seemed less helpful than the last. No one liked talking to cops.

With a sigh, Greg turned into an alley and got out of his squad car. This was the alley that Mycroft had gone missing in. It was times like these when he wished he still smoked. He had given up the habit when his son was born. Probably for the best, good for his health, but the patches just didn't help with this kind of stress the same way.

Dammit, Mycroft was still out there. _Probably dead by now_, the evil little voice in the back of his head whispered. He didn't know what he was doing here. He should have been heading to the next address on the list, but a theme was becoming clear. No one had seen anything, so what was the point?

It was raining, of course. Greg opened the umbrella that Mycroft had bought for him, letting it shield him from the downpour. Feeling the weight of the umbrella in his hand, he touched the brick of the wall and closed his eyes. Mycroft had been missing for forty-eight hours, and still no contact from his kidnappers. It was hard not to give up hope.

He tried to imagine Mycroft, the curve of the man's jaw, the way his hair was always done so well. He tried to hold that image in his mind, trying to remember the sound of the man's voice, how his face beamed when he grinned.

Like an answered prayer his phone rang. "Sir? You're going to want to come back to the Yard. We got an anonymous tip." Sally sounded excited.

"What? What does it say?" Greg gripped the phone tightly, already jogging back to his car.

"It was a fax. Just coordinates and the name Holmes. That's it."

"Find those coordinates!" He couldn't have asked for more from a tip. If it turned out to be genuine, then this could be the tip that saved Mycroft's life.

"Already on it sir."

"Let the other teams know! Someone get a surveillance team over there!"

"We are sir."

"I'm on my way back!" Greg said. Hope sprung anew in his chest. This wasn't over yet, but they finally had a lead.

x

Mycroft stifled a groan as he woke up again. He stayed limp in the chair, his eyes closed. If his captors knew he was awake, they might start hitting him again, and that was rather unpleasant.

"What if he won't talk? When do we talk about ransoming him?" The woman asked.

"Ransom? Who said anything about a ransom, Charlotte? If he won't talk, we'll kill him," Sebastian Moran's voice came from somewhere behind him.

"What?" Charlotte balked. A power struggle was brewing. "Now listen you," she continued. "The British government would empty it's vaults to get Holmes back! We could fund our operations for a decade on the ransom! Just because you were Moriarty's chief of staff, just because you were sucking his cock, doesn't m-"

"Are you sure you really want to finish that thought?" There was the sound of a gun being cocked and the hiss of Moran's voice.

"You've lost your mind Moran!" The woman's voice had taken on a startled tremor. As dangerous as she was, it appeared that even she knew to be wary of Sebastian Moran. "Forget about getting revenge for Moriarty. Think of the money!"

"You listen to me. And Holmes, you better listen too, because I know you are awake. If he doesn't tell us what we want, kill the girl. If he stays stubborn after that, just kill him. We will mail his body back to Scotland Yard in shoeboxes, one chunk at a time. That's final. Now, I'm going out. If he starts to talk, text me."

Mycroft wished he were religious, because that was about the time he would have started to pray. It was hard not to give up hope.

Like an answered prayer, it wasn't long before gunshots started downstairs.

x

The CO19 Force Firearms Unit slammed through the front door, taking out at least two gunmen in the first flurry of shots. Technically Greg shouldn't have been there. This wasn't his job, his team, or his area of expertise. But he had demanded command of the unit, strapped himself into riot gear and rushed right in after the main team.

The tip had been a good one. The SO1 had sent over a surveillance team right away, and sure enough, it looked like they had found the right place. Things had moved quickly after that. Less than two hours after getting the tip, and here they were, storming the place.

"Remember!" he said over the walkies. "We're looking for Mycroft Holmes and his female assistant. Their safety is top priority!" The team rushed through the house, searching. Apart from the two guys at the door, there were only a few more gunmen inside the house and they went down fast.

Greg kept moving. Mycroft was somewhere in this building, dead or alive. He had to find him.

Greg kicked down door after door as he went through the narrow hallway second floor of the house. Finally he reached the one in the back, throwing his weight against it and the wood, half rotted in the damp, gave way.

His heart gave a leap at the scene in front of him. Mycroft, his head bowed, was strapped to a chair, bloodied and rather broken looking. As the door slammed open, Mycroft gave a small twitch, but other wise didn't move.

"Mycroft!" Greg rushed into the room and dropped down in front of him. Mycroft looked up at the sound of his voice, his eyes widening slightly.

"Gregory? You found me." Mycroft's voice cracked, rough from disuse.

"Yeah." Greg gave him a small smile and placed his hand on the man's cheek. He ran his thumb over a deep gash on the man's face. "Quick, tell me how many men were here."

'Four. And a very angry woman. Though I don't believe their leader is here at the moment."

Greg got on his walkie quickly. "Team, I think we got all kidnappers that are present, but keep searching the place. Get me a medical crew upstairs." He leaned down and began to cut at the knots. "Those bastards really banged you up."

"Well, yes. That Sebastian Moran seems rather unstable. I'm quite alright though," Mycroft said. Greg knew he wasn't, but let the man keep his pride. "It certainly took you long enough. I was beginning to think that it was a hopeless case without my brother helping you."

"Hey now, the Met isn't all useless. It just...involved a bit of legwork." Greg thought back on that tip, the one that came just as he felt like he was going to give up hope. Who could have sent it, he wondered. Who could have figured it out? He had thought that only Sherlock would have been able to, but Sherlock was...gone.

Mycroft groaned. The ropes finally gave way and slipped off Mycroft's wrists.

Greg laughed and, without thinking, leaned in to kiss the man. He simply felt so relieved, overwhelmed by the weight lifting off his chest. He had found Mycroft, and he was ok. Both his hands carded through Mycroft's hair, trying to be gentle with the battered man. He breathed in deeply, letting the relief flood through him at the contact.

He pulled away, a blush on his cheeks like he was a damn teenager. He had acted without thinking, and he could still taste Mycroft on his lips.

Mycroft's eyes were wide and baffled. For once, a Holmes was left clueless. "I..." but before Mycroft could finish that thought, the medical crew bustled into the room, and he was lost in the flurry of medical excitement.

x

Greg hovered just outside the hospital door until the doctors were done inside. Mycroft was banged up good, they said, but he would be fine. It seemed the kidnappers had been trying to cause as much pain as they could without putting his life in danger. With the exception of one dangerously deep gash on his arm, Mycroft would be completely healed in a week or two.

Anthea had been in better condition than Mycroft. Despite being rather battered, she was healing fast. Greg had already peeked in to check on her. She had been too busy emailing on her new phone to speak much to him, but she thanked him for the gallant rescue and told him to go see Mycroft.

Lestrade wondered if the man would have any visitors beside him come to visit him with Sherlock gone. Mycroft's mother was dead, and Lestrade couldn't remember if the man had ever mentioned his father. Surely some people from his job would come by, he told himself, but the nurses said that so far no one had so much as called about his status. Of course, the right people would have already been told about his status. Still, the idea that no one was coming to see him was rather lonely, Greg thought.

"Hey," Greg gave a small awkward wave as he walked into the room.

"Ah, Gregory. Hello," Mycroft was sitting up in bed, typing away on his phone. His hair was mushed and he looked too pale, but he didn't appear to be in pain. "Do pardon me. I'm rather behind on work, as you can imagine," he said and set the phone aside. He was giving Greg his undivided attention. The doctor wasn't kidding about him being banged up though. He was nearly covered in bandages.

"I'm...uh...supposed to ask you some questions. Get some information about the men who took you." He had his hands shoved into the pockets of his pants, and he rocked back on his heels. "The thugs who were at the house are all refusing to talk at the moment. "

"Does the detective inspector normally do this kind of questioning?" Mycroft was smiling. Greg didn't know how the man could be so cheerful after his ordeal. For all the time they had spent together Mycroft was still a bit of an enigma.

"Heh. Sometimes. I may have volunteered." Greg leaned back against the wall by the door. "I also just wanted to be sure you were ok."

"This isn't the first time I've been kidnapped Gregory. I shall be fine. Now, if you wish to ask me questions, may I ask a few in return?" Mycroft asked.

"Uh...yeah, I guess. Sure." Greg felt a sliver of nervousness thread through his stomach. He had no way of knowing how much Mycroft remembered from being rescued. Greg wasn't sure he wanted to have a conversation about _the kiss. _But did Mycroft even remember that?

"When you found me you..." Mycroft steepled his fingers below his chin. "You..kissed me." _That answered that question, didn't it?_ Greg thought.

"Er. Well...yes." Greg couldn't forget either. It was all he had been thinking about for the past six hours. He had kissed Mycroft Holmes. He had tried to chalk it up to just platonically motivated relief but that wasn't exactly true and he knew it.

"May I ask why?"

"I don't really...have an answer for that." Greg looked away, running a hand awkwardly through his own hair. What was he supposed to say? He didn't even really have an answer for himself yet. He had developed a crush on the man, that much was clear. _Feelings._ More then just-friends kind of feelings.

"Ah...well, it does at least explain the divorce," Mycroft said in an eerily matter of fact voice. The man didn't seem terribly confused, or disgusted about the matter. The whole reaction was irritatingly serene in fact.

"Sorry?" Greg looked up at Mycroft, startled. He had never spoken about his marriage with Mycroft, much less the circumstances that had lead up to his divorce. He hadn't spoken to anyone about it except his mother, and as far as he knew his mother and Mycroft weren't texting each other.

"Well, I simply couldn't figure out why a woman would want to terminate a relationship with you. I suppose this is the missing piece," Mycroft was looking irritatingly smug.

"Ah, come on. It's not unusual for police to get divorced. Long hours, dangerous work, missed birthdays and anniversaries," Greg was chewing on his bottom lip. This entire conversation was uncomfortable.

"Latent homosexuality."

"I...well.." Greg slumped against the wall. He looked away awkwardly. It was true though. That had been the final straw for Karen. She had put up with all his work problems, all his broken promises and missed dinners, but finding a stash of gay porn in the bottom of his locked liquor cabinet was the end of it.

He really hadn't meant to hurt her. He hadn't been able to come out to_ himself_ until after Karen was already pregnant with their first kid, and Greg didn't want to rip his family apart over something that he had successfully kept a secret from everyone, even himself, for most of his life. It didn't matter that he had never cheated on her, and had never been with a man. She said that she refused to live her life as his beard and that was that.

"Well, it certainly clears up that mystery, as I said." Mycroft was giving him a tiny smirk.

"...yeah." Greg was feeling just a little too exposed. He couldn't read Mycroft's knowing grin at all.

"Gregory? Another question if you don't mind," Mycroft said. "Do you remember when I invited you to dinner?"

"Yeah, then you went and got kidnapped. You were a no-show." Greg tried out a small smile, making a joke out of it. He hoped that the conversation was moving away from his divorce. He didn't like to dwell on it.

"To make up for that, allow me to take you out as soon as they let me out of this blasted hospital, yes? Make it a date?" Mycroft offered.

"...a date?" Greg wasn't sure he had heard that right.

"Yes, if that would be agreeable. I have been attempting to flirt with you for several months, Gregory. You were a bit dense about it."

Greg got a silly lopsided grin on half his face. "Oh. Heh. Yeah. Karen always said I was the last person to figure things out." Mycroft had been flirting with him? He felt a bit foolish for not picking up on that sooner." But...Yeah, sounds good. Just uh...let me know when, yeah?"

"Certainly."

"Right. Well, I should go. Work stuff. Paperwork."

"Indeed. Goodbye, Gregory. And...I do thank you for saving me."

"Yeah..anytime. Just don't make a habit out of it," Greg said and slipped back out the door with an extra skip in his step. He had a date with Mycroft Holmes. What a weird thought that was, sitting in his brain. Still, it made him happy and he wasn't about to question that.

"Sir," Sally walked up and moved into step with him."We just finished talking to that Anthea woman. We got some interesting information from her. How did things go with Mycroft?"

"Hm? Oh, really good," Lestrade said, giving her one of his all teeth grins.

"So what did he say about the kidnappers?" Sally asked him.

"Oh. I didn't ask him." Greg knew he had forgotten something. Oh well. He hadn't exactly slept in a few days. It wasn't his fault. Besides, how was he supposed to ask those questions while Mycroft was asking him on an honest to God date?

"You...why not? What were you talking about?"

"I have to go Sally. I need to sleep. You go ask him the blasted questions." Greg said and got into the elevator, leaving Sally to glare at him as the doors closed.

Greg was headed home to finally get some sleep.

x


	3. Chapter 3

So this is the third and final chapter of Find Your Footing. It is shorter than the first two, but I wanted to tie up all the loose ends and give our men a good ending. I want to thank all of you for reading. :)

xxx

Greg had really let the work pile up over the last few days. The serial murderer case had been left to stagnate on his desk for nearly three days. Luckily there had been no more murders that fit the pattern, so it seemed that the delay on the case hadn't caused any major problems. The case resumed where it had been left off before Mycroft was taken.

He started to sort through all the reports in his inbox, signing off on the ones that needed signing as he drank his morning coffee. It was dull work, but it had to be done. The last few days had been too exciting anyway. He welcomed some dullness.

He flipped through his stack of reports until he found the one that Sally had written up for Mycroft's case. He read through it, making sure all the little details were right. He got to the faxed paper with their tip on it again. Just a single line of type, a set of coordinate and the name Holmes.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the paper. That was the confusing piece. Honestly, he had no idea how they would have found Mycroft in time without the tip, and there were no hints as to who had sent it.

He shook his head, because his only hypothesis was impossible. He set the file aside.

What really mattered, he told himself, was that Mycroft was safe now, recovering in the hospital.

His phone buzzed. _'Daytime telly is truly awful. It should be criminal, Gregory. Look into it. -MH.' _Greg let out a laugh. Mycroft was safe and definitely back to normal it seemed.

X

One thing that Greg had noticed during his time with Mycroft pre-abduction was the man's tendency to order lavish coffee cakes whenever their coffee dates ran a late. Greg assumed that the hospital wouldn't have pastries of quite the same quality Mycroft was used to. Working off that assumption, he made a stop at their normal cafe to pick up some before visiting Mycroft in the hospital.

Every day Mycroft was looking better. It wouldn't be long until Greg got that pizza date.

"Ah, Gregory," Mycroft said, sounding relieved. He turned off the television. "Thank goodness. I needed a distraction." Mycroft was sitting in the bed, his hair messy, but looking healthy. Most of his bandages were gone now, but much of the bruising hadn't healed yet.

"Why don't you just read the paper?" Greg laughed.

"I finished them hours ago," Mycroft said, mentioning to a stack of newspapers and tabloids by his bed. " There's really so little to do here."

Greg gave a toothy grin and held up a small bag. "I brought you an apple turnover today."

"My dear Gregory, you are a godsend."

x

Mycroft's texts were becoming more frequent, and if possible, more endearing.

_'They are making me leaving in a wheelchair. It's undignified. Should be criminal really. Look __into it- MH'_

X

Mycroft was still walking with a slight limp, but was otherwise ship shape. It had taken a bit of persuading (and bribery, Greg assumed), but he had gotten released from the hospital a few days early. He was eager to get back to work, and more eager to finally have his dinner date with Gregory.

Mycroft looked around the Pizza parlor, approving it. He got the sense that this was not the pizza place that Gregory normally frequented, but rather a spot he reserved for when his usual haunt would be deemed too low rent for a guest. He probably brought his children here. It had little patio tables and plastic table clothes and waiters. It was respectable.

As they sat down, Mycroft noted with some smug pleasure that Gregory was carrying the umbrella he had bought for him. The fact the the inspector, who was so very bad aboutlosing umbrellas, had managed not to lose this one was rather flattering.

"I see you've managed to keep a hold of that umbrella."

"Well, I was looking out for it, wasn't I? Tryin' really hard not to lose it," Greg replied, his lips pulling back into a smile.

Mycroft grinned at that and began to look over his menu. Mycroft wanted to order artichoke hearts and Greg wanted anchovies. They got one half and half. Greg ordered a beer, and Mycroft suffered through a glass of the only red wine the little place served. Greg folded his pizza over; Mycroft, much to Greg's horror, began to eat his with a fork.

"We really are Lady and the Tramp, aren't we?" Greg laughed. What was the old saying? Opposites attract?

"Excuse me?" Mycroft looked up from cutting his slice of pizza into evenly sized squares.

"It's a kids movie," Greg laughed. "My daughter loves it. It's a love story."

"...which one am I then? The Lady or the Tramp?" Mycroft quirked an eyebrow.

"Well, I'd be the tramp, yeah?"

Mycroft made a disapproving face, frowning into his glass of house red.

X

"Well, this was a good deal of fun, Gregory," Mycroft said. Greg was leaning back against the railing. Any moment now, Anthea would drive up in the car and their date would be over.

"Yeah. We'll do it again sometime," Greg suggested, his gaze running up and down Mycroft's frame.

"Mmm, perhaps. Yes." Mycroft was smiling softly, making the man even more handsome than normal.

Greg grabbed the man by his neck tie and pulled him into a kiss. Unlike their first kiss, which had been quick, one-sided, and baffling, the one stretched out. Mycroft reacted quickly, placing his hands on Greg's waist. Mycroft's tongue was warm and wet, slipping into his mouth. Greg couldn't help but let out a tiny noise from the back of his throat.

There was the sound of a car pulling up next to them and a small honk. Mycroft pulled away. "That's my ride."

"Right..."

"Until next time, Gregory," Mycroft said with a smirk and disappeared into the car.

X

Back at work and back to normal, Mycroft would disappear to various exotic locales for days at a time. Greg almost never knew exactly where he was, or what he was doing. It was a matter of national importance after all. Sometimes he did get little hints in texts though.

_'Danishes are indeed better in Denmark. Shall we get Pizza when I return tomorrow evening? -MH' _

x

Greg grabbed his coat as he headed to the door. It had been a long day at the office, and Mycroft was busy with work (something about Pakistan, but Greg couldn't get specifics) so he was headed home to an empty flat again.

He had a boyfriend. He supposed Mycroft counted a boyfriend, though the word felt far too juvenile for the frumpy, posh, pompous man that Greg found himself going on dinner dates with. It was a strange development in his life, but he wasn't complaining.

His phone gave a little buzz in his pocket.

_'Drive safe, Gregory. And if you can, avoid the M25. -MH' _Greg stared at the text, but didn't question it. Mycroft did seem to have an uncanny ability to predict the traffic. Even if it was an out of the way detour, he figured it was better safe than sorry when it came to Mycroft's advice.

x

"You kids go unpack in the guest bedroom, ok?" Greg smiled as his kids bustled into his flat. He finally had a weekend off, and had volunteered to take the kids. Karen couldn't really protest. She had a new boyfriend now, apparently, and a weekend without the kids wasn't something to be snubbed. Greg hadn't met this new boyfriend yet, but the kids seemed to like him well enough. It wasn't his place to get jealous.

"I'll be by tomorrow night for them," Karen said. She looked good, Greg noticed. She looked happy. "If something comes up Kennith is ok on his own for a few hours with Casey. And you can call me if something serious comes up." Karen was fiddling with a charm on her cell phone, a nervous habit that meant she felt awkward. Greg couldn't blame her. They were still on rather uneven footing with each other.

"Thanks, Karen," Greg said, shoving his hands in his jeans.

"So...you've...been well?" she asked. "I worry you know. You never could cook for yourself," she teased gently.

"Yeah," Greg laughed softly. "I've mastered the art of frying eggs at least."

"You...seeing anyone?"

"...sort of, actually." Greg cleared his throat. "We're uh...taking things slow." Besides a few rather subdued snogging sessions, he and Mycroft hadn't done much of anything. He wasn't complaining though. He'd never been with a man before. It was probably best to take it step by step if he was being honest. The suspense was half the fun.

"...Good for you Greg." Karen gave him a wider smile. "Really. How'd you meet him?"

Greg gave a small sound of protest. It was an odd sensation to have Karen assume, however rightfully, that it was in fact a _him. _"...Work. Kind of. I've known him for years. He works for the government," Greg told her. No need to mention how their first encounter had involved offers of bribery and very polite abduction.

"And how'd you get together?"

"I...rescued him after he got kidnapped by terrorists." Karen gave him a look that said she wasn't sure if she believed him or not. Greg just shrugged in reply.

"Daddy!" Casey ran back over to him. She was ten now. Ten year olds, Greg thought, had liquid caffeine in their blood. "I wanna listen to your records! Come help me! I wanna hear The Clash!" Greg laughed at that. It was good to see that his kids were inheriting his taste in music at least.

"I better go," Karen said. "...Maybe next time I can meet...him. This man you're seeing."

"Heh. Maybe."

"Maybe we can do a double date? You haven't met Richard yet." Karen waved goodbye to the kids as she turned to the door.

A double date with Mycroft. The idea made Greg laugh. "We'll see. Bye Karen."

"Bye Greg."

x

_'Hope your weekend with the children went well. Shall we get Pizza once they are returned to their mother?' -MH_

x

Raining. It was always raining. It seemed like a tired old joke now, Greg thought, but it was true.

He stood under his umbrella, still marveling at the novelty of not getting wet despite the weather, and watched Sally shove the handcuffed man into one of the police cars. Tomorrow he would have to hold a press conference. For now there were police reports to fill out, and a victim get a statement from.

Their serial killer was caught. The call had come in right at dinner time; a 911 call came in, screaming heard from a downtown flat. When they rushed in, bam. There he was, some nutter with pictures of all the dead girls pinned to his wall with knives. Another loose thread dealt with.

_'We caught our serial killer. Celebrate with me tomorrow? -GL' _he typed into his phone. It took only a few seconds for the reply to come.

_'Good show. I'll have a car sent by after your press conference.-MH' _

x

Unintentionally the pizza parlor had become he and Mycroft's staple date restaurant. It was familiar and warm. Greg was worried he may have been corrupting Mycroft somewhat. The man had begun to drink the tap beer, order pizza that didn't have artichoke hearts on it and, most importantly, Greg had even gotten Mycroft to stop eating Pizza with a fork.

"Congratulations again on catching your criminal," Mycroft said and took another sip of his beer. Mycroft still sat with poise and gave off his aura of posh nobility, but he seemed much more relaxed than he had been when Gregory had first met him.

"Yeah, well, the whole force really did it," Greg said, and finished the beer he had in his hand. He was trying to be modest, but it felt good to have that case wrapped up.

"It's been a lovely evening, Gregory." Mycroft dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "Perhaps I can see you again later this week?"

"Mycroft," Greg said, reaching across the table to take the man by the hand. Mycroft's hands were soft, only slightly calloused where he gripped his pens. It had been a fantastic day. He had a few beers and a nagging glorious idea inside him. "Come home with me."

"Excuse me?" Mycroft's eyebrows rose up, his face flushing slightly.

"If you want. I'm asking you to come back to my flat with me," Greg said. "For Coffee? Look at my etchings? Whatever euphemism will work."

"Oh. Well..." A smile was creeping over Mycroft's face through his blush. "I think that is a...very good idea. I'll just..." He took out his phone and tapped out a few texts very quickly.

"Excellent," Greg laughed, trying not to be too flustered by this.

Mycroft hooked up wrist behind the man's head and pulled him into a kiss, right there in front of the waiter, God, and everyone.

X

Greg woke up gently. The morning unfurled slowly, the light, and the smell of sweat and the cooling warmth of the pillow next to him eased him out of sleep. As Greg stretched out his muscles, he noticed the sound of his shower running. Mycroft had stayed the whole night. He grinned widely at that. He had missed waking up to the sounds of other people.

He made his way to his small kitchen and started a pot of coffee, enough for two and moved on to finding breakfast. In the soft morning light, Gregory Lestrade ate a strudel, sipped his coffee, as he waited for Mycroft to appear, feeling, for the first time in a very long time, like he was standing on firm ground again.


End file.
